Monster
by lilkyonkyon
Summary: "mon'ster (mαn'stər) n. 1, a fantastical half-human animal. 2, an abnormally malformed animal or plant. 3, a morally deformed person." He picked up his pencil and added: "4, Draco Malfoy." Rated T for language and adult themes. Further summary inside.
1. Prologue

I have been working on this story for a good long time, now, and I thought I'd start getting some chapters up. Finally. It all started when my friends and I were talking about the inconsistencies of what makes a "mudblood"... and then this epic-length story ensued. I hope you enjoy.

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 **Title:** Monster

 **Setting:** AU after fifth book; Hogwarts, Sixth Year

 **Summary:** On his deathbed, Lucius Malfoy reveals a horrifying truth to his son. Its effects are far-reaching, damaging Draco's relationships, status, and even his mentality. Then, when Draco becomes an unwilling witness to murder, he is suddenly dropped in between the infamous Gryffindor Trio and the newest plan of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named — a plan that will result in the destruction of everything he'd ever known. Or, perhaps, the resurrection of a part of him he'd never bothered to search for.

 **Disclaimer:** Even though I'm really proud of this story, the characters, setting, and so on are not my creation. All credit goes to J.K. Rowling.

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 **m.o.n.s.t.e.r**

 **Prologue**

Draco was gaping. He knew he looked foolish, but that was the last thing on his mind. "Father, you're not serious," he stuttered.

His father, however, did not answer. He was dead.

"Father," the boy said, a little more harshly. "Father, wake up! This had better be a joke!" Lucius did not stir. Narcissa, on the opposite side of the bed, silently began to cry. Draco did not notice this. His vision had narrowed until he could only see his father's face, down to its infinitesimal details: slightly sallow cheeks, indigo underneath his partially-closed eyes, and pale, creased lips. Gritting his teeth, he shoved Lucius' shoulder hard as he shouted, "It's a joke! Ha bloody ha, right?" Draco abruptly focused on his mother, though he remained oblivious to her sniffling. "Mother, he didn't mean it, did he," he demanded, rather than asked. "He was joshing."

She, however, turned away and began to sob louder, shaking her head no.

No.

No, it was not a joke.

Lucius' last words replayed in Draco's head, and he remained still for what seemed to be a very long time. An entire lifetime, in reality. He thought about it all. The time he'd stubbed his toe when he was four, the first time he'd caught a frog in the marsh behind the house, the time he chipped his tooth when he'd flown higher than his father had wanted him to and he'd been grounded for a week. Then, for a blissful, fleeting moment of time, he wondered if he also would die. Isn't that what happened when your life flashed before your eyes?

In spite of himself, his lips turned upwards and he chuckled. It was most likely from shock. After all, this was the first time Draco could remember _being_ shocked. Utterly and completely bloody shocked. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a rush of air when his shoulders hit the cushion. His body was still shaking.

"I can't believe it," he said with an odd mixture of humour and depression. Tears began to leak out of his eyes and he stared up at the ceiling with a silly, sad smile. "I simply can't believe it."

He assumed this is what it felt like when your father told you on his death bed that your real name was Meriwether. Or that you were adopted. Or that you were some kind of monster that he had found on the street and raised as his own son. Except Draco may have preferred any of the three to this. Hell, he'd have preferred them all. Meriwether wasn't too bad, all things considered.

Narcissa coughed and sobbed harder.

Draco convulsed with incredulity. His name wasn't really Meriwether, of course, nor was he technically adopted. But he was seriously debating if he was a monster. A dictionary would say no, but Draco never was much for reading. He rather thought he _was_.

"Mother," he chortled, "Mother, I'm a monster." Narcissa hiccupped, blew her nose in her handkerchief, and said nothing. He, however, laughed wildly at the thought, and his tears came thick and fast, and he dropped his head in his hands, absolutely hysterical.

Above this scene hovered a QuickQuotes quill and a piece of parchment, charmed to take down Lucius' will and last testament. The very last words on the page read,

 _Draco, your mother is not your real mother . . . your mother's name was Margaret Baker . . . and . . . she was a Muggle . . . ._

The first thing he had done, of course, was go directly to bed. He slept for sixteen hours straight, and when he woke up the next day, he found he was still merry, almost reckless. He wasn't himself, really. Draco saw no reason to bathe, to dress immaculately as he was always expected to. He shuffled to breakfast wearing a ratty set of pyjamas and mismatched slippers. His mother noticed, but said nothing, and she remained silent when he refused to study, and when he ignored summons to greet guests. Draco even pranked her one day — he had streaked mud all over his face and chest, and then jumped out of a closet as she was walking by, roaring as if he were possessed. It was the last straw when Narcissa found him on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood, both of his wrists nicely sliced up. It took her a couple of days to revive him, and when she pressed Draco for a reason, he said that he was trying to bleed all of the filth away. His eerily calm manner frightened her the most. She knew something was wrong with him, but she dreaded calling in a doctor for fear of the press. Consequently, she placed him under house arrest and constant surveillance, whether by ordering the house elves to do it or by simply watching him herself.

After about a week of this treatment, Draco began to act a bit more like himself; that is to say, he began to grow more sullen with the constant attention. When he threatened to take the life of one of the house elves by smothering him with a washrag (Draco had been bathing at the time), Narcissa decided he was well enough to be left alone.

Still, neither mentioned Lucius' last words until almost a month after his death.

It was dinner, and Draco and his mother were eating in silence. The boy finished a bite of duck, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and slammed his fist on the table. "No one told me! No one _bloody_ told me!" he shouted. Narcissa started at his outburst, and then turned her cold eyes on him.

"Of course we didn't tell you," she sniffed at him. "We didn't tell anyone."

They didn't say another word on the subject for an additional fortnight. In fact, they started to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if Lucius were simply out on business. Draco, for one, would've been content if they never spoke of it again and he could just pretend it had never happened.

Except he had school.

He remembered that with a jolt ten days into the silence, a full month before classes began. It was to be his sixth year at Hogwarts. Had everyone found out this secret? What would his year mates think? His house? The entire school? Draco didn't even know anything about his birth mother, except her name (Margaret Baker) and her blood status (Muggle). That was all he really cared to know for the month and a half following his father's death. Once, he did note rather nastily that his mother wasn't _even_ a mudblood, but he spared her no thoughts otherwise.

That month before school, though, he grew more curious. For instance, he wondered how his father fell in with her sort. And why did Draco's father — Merlin help him — shag her? He was a pureblood; what about his duties and upbringing? Finally, and most importantly in Draco's mind, when did he get placed with Lucius and Narcissa? Did he spend any amount of time in the muggle world? The thought made him feel nauseous.

First, he went to Narcissa to get the story. She told it very succinctly:

"Your father, during his bachelor party, indulged a bit too much and spent the evening with a woman that he met at the establishment. When he woke up the next morning, he found out she was a Muggle, so he Apparated back as fast as he could. He didn't remember to check if she was pregnant. We were married the same day."

"But how did I get _here_? And when?" Draco pressed.

"The muggle's younger cousin was graduating Hogwarts at the time, so she was celebrating with her family at a magical bar at the same time your father had his party. Her cousin later heard about her predicament and the rather . . . odd circumstances surrounding it. Apparently your father had sent her a letter by owl telling her he couldn't see her again, the fool. In any case, he was able to send an owl to us, relaying your existence. The muggle woman, it turns out, died shortly after she gave birth to you, and the cousin convinced her parents that it would be beneficial for you to be raised in Wizarding society. He then handed you over to us so that we could raise you _properly_." That last word, with a special emphasis, told Draco she wanted to say no more on the subject, so he left.

The next person he turned to . . . was no one. He didn't know who else he could ask. His father was dead and, well, so was his birth mother. Not like he would've ever searched for her.

A few days before school started, Draco became more apprehensive. He received his list of school supplies, but refused to leave the Manor to get them. Resigned and apathetic, Narcissa ordered a house elf to get the necessities while Draco stayed in bed, mindlessly playing with his Prefect badge. Funny, it didn't seem to matter to him anymore if he was a Prefect or not. He'd much rather have been himself.

Draco didn't once leave his room until the day school began. He took his meals in bed and divided the remainder of his time between napping and studying. The night before school was to start, he didn't even sleep — he just packed, unpacked, and repacked, over and over, trying to make up his mind about where he wanted to be. He didn't want to leave the security of solitude. But he didn't want to be this afraid of the world, either. The next morning, his mother left him with no decision. She blasted the door open with a simple spell and he was forced to vacate.

Reality met him at the station.

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You can probably guess that school isn't going to be too fun for him, haha. Anyways, please review!


	2. Through a Window

The school year just started on Friday, so I've been super-busy already grading and planning, but I wanted to make sure to post another chapter. I'm really excited to share this story with everyone. So, without further ado, chapter one is here.

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 **Chapter One**

 **Through a Window**

His mum had dropped him off beside the scarlet engine, pecked him swiftly on the cheek and left. This year, it felt forced.

Draco was currently waiting in his usual train compartment, slouching, his eagle owl soundly asleep beside him. The shades over the window were partially drawn, as he had not yet gotten used to the brightness of the sun. Students outside were flitting about. The younger ones especially: they looked like they might die from excitement before they even boarded the train. Draco was about to play a game he and his friends had made —one where they'd guess which first-years were mudbloods — then it struck him that it wasn't nearly as fun if he was one of _them_. He absently looked at his hands. They were filthy from the leather of his trunk. Silently, he began to cast the cleaning charm on them, first one and then the other, back and forth, until they were red and raw.

He heard the door slam open and whirled, but the face that greeted him was familiar. "Pansy, thank Merlin," he sighed. "I've missed you all summer. It was awful being cooped up in that —"

"Draco," Pansy interrupted laboriously. It was meant to shut him up, and it did. "My family . . . I know about your mother. Your _real_ mother." She cringed even as she said it.

Something inside of him withered at her words. "Oh," was all he said.

"After your father died, the news came out. My parents . . . they said I can't talk to you anymore. T-they said that you're a – a . . . oh, I can't do this!" She pressed a hand over her eyes, and for one alarming moment, he thought she would cry. Pansy _never_ cried. "They told me never to see you again, but I . . . I wanted you to know about it. I'm sorry, I really am," she insisted desperately, "but you're not one of us anymore, Draco. Please, you have to understand."

"I do," he said. His throat felt dry.

"So . . . goodbye, then. And I am sorry about your father."

"Right. Goodbye."

Pansy lingered a bit longer in the doorway, but she said nothing to him, nor him to her. After a moment, she turned and fled. All of his hopes for a good year went with her. Draco sullenly returned to gazing out of his window. This time, he tried to pick out the purebloods from the crowd of students milling about. They were much easier to find — he simply looked for the students he vaguely recognized.

Zabini's younger sister, with frizzy black hair.

Crabbe's niece.

A Parkinson — a second cousin to Pansy, he believed.

Before, he'd been one of them. He'd _known_ them, their troubles, their triumphs. That Draco, however, was an impostor.

His owl, Hyram, hooted quietly and stretched its wings. Absently, he stroked its feathers and rested his head on the window pane, closing his eyes. He couldn't watch everyone else anymore; it made him sick somehow. The train lurched forward, but his compartment remained embarrassingly empty. He had nothing to do with no one to talk to, so he tried to stop the cracks on his hands from bleeding too much. Strange, how his blood appeared to be the same when he felt so different.

By now, the train was picking up speed, with green scenery darting by the window. The door slid open again, and when he looked up, he found a troop of Slytherins in front of him. They were his friends. "Hullo," he said mindlessly. He convinced himself that their shifting eyes weren't because of him. They were all he had. "Come to sit with me? I haven't seen you all since last —"

Something about their faces made him stop. Neither Crabbe nor Goyle were meeting his eyes. Come to think of it, neither was moving to sit in his usual spot, either. They stood awkwardly at the threshold, rocking with the motion of the train, neither coming nor going.

Draco didn't want to believe what he knew was true. "Did you have something to say to me?" he inquired apprehensively. He could hardly hear himself above the clanging of the tracks, but they'd managed to understand him anyways. The pair exchanged a self-conscious glance.

"We've heard some things about you," Goyle muttered to the floor. "Thought you ought to know."

"What kind of things?"

"Filthy bastard," said Crabbe. Goyle added, "A mud stain on the Malfoy name. Things like that."

It all sank in while he stared at them, dazed. Well, it was plain as lumos. _A filthy bastard_ , they said. _A mud stain on the Malfoy name_. He rather liked it, how it fit just so, how it rolled off the tongue with the delicate taste of malevolence. It would have been the perfect remark — if it weren't about him.

Draco suddenly became livid. He wanted to scream at them, to slap Pansy across the face, to hex Crabbe and Goyle to hell and back again. He wanted to berate his mother for ever allowing a monster like him in the house and then _lying_ for sixteen years so he would think he was normal. He wanted to bring his father back from the dead just so he could have the pleasure of killing the man with his own bare hands. He wanted to find a time turner, go back seventeen years and prevent his conception from ever happening. He wanted it all to fucking _end_.

"Right," was the only word he could muster.

"The others in the house aren't happy. You should watch your back this year. They might . . . do things. We can't talk to you, not with our parents and our housemates —"

"But we'll try to help you when we can. When it won't make anyone angry at us."

"Yeah. We'll try."

They spoke over each other, trying to console him, but Draco was utterly abandoned now. He tried to appear unconcerned when Crabbe and Goyle left with one last apologetic look. The door clicked shut, and he stared out the window at nothing.

After a moment, he drew the shades closed and moved his owl's cage to the opposing bench. He stretched his legs out on his own side with a sigh. It was, he noted, exceedingly uncomfortable. Lethargically, Draco bundled up his cloak and tried it as a pillow. Better. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to forget how he had lost his two best friends and his girlfriend in less than an hour span.

Draco had no idea when he fell asleep, but the noise of the compartment door opening woke him with a start, and he hurriedly sat up to see who had come in. Oddly enough, it was mudblood Granger who stared back at him.

"What do you want?" he snapped, alarmed. Did she know about his father's death? Did she know about him? Almost unconsciously, he found himself backing further into the seat's corner. She seemed to notice this movement, and it made her frown.

"Malfoy, we have a Prefect meeting," she informed him shortly. "I was sent to get you. Didn't you get the note from Professor Snape?" He stared mutely back at her, not because he was trying to be rude, but because he was trying to remember. Her Prefect badge, red and gold, seemed to glitter at him. Then, he looked downward at his own badge, winking at him with silver and green.

"I'm a Prefect," he said dumbly, as if he'd never noticed before.

"I know that." Her frown deepened. "What's wrong with you? Why's it so dark in here? Where are your friends?"

"Who?"

"Merlin, what happened to your hands?" she burst, sounding shocked. He glanced back down, finding his hands still chapped, and even bleeding a bit.

"I washed them," he replied snidely. She opened her mouth as if to scold him, but someone shouted her name in the corridor and she looked out.

"Ron, I'm here," she said by way of greeting. He appeared in the doorway beside her, looking as hassled as Draco felt. He had a Prefect badge as well, although his was not quite as bright as Granger's. It seemed to have a smudge on it. Wow, the daft bugger couldn't even afford to keep a new badge clean.

"I told you I was coming with you. Is he giving you any trouble?" Weasley asked warily, eyeing Draco. In turn, Draco childishly bared his teeth at him.

"No, not really," Granger attested, confused at the exchange. Weasley sighed and stepped into the compartment, grumbling, "Lemme do it." To Draco, he said a bit more encouragingly, "Come on, Malfoy, let's go." He pointedly avoided looking at the boy's chafed hands as he motioned to the corridor. "We're all waiting on your lazy arse to start the meeting."

The blond raised his chin. "What if I don't want to be a Prefect?"

Draco noticed Granger's jaw was hanging open, but Weasley lightly replied, "Then go tell McGonagall yourself, you bloody git. Now, do you want to walk to the front of the train on your own, or do you want me to drag you there by that greasy mop of yours?"

"Ron!" Granger interjected, taken aback.

"One way or another, you're coming with us," he continued unabashed.

Full of resentment but not of rebellion, Draco unwillingly lifted himself to his feet and scowled at the redhead. "Lead the way, Mister Weasley," he uttered scornfully. "I'd love to see an oaf like you try to lead anybody anywhere." He had to give him credit: Weasley hardly reacted, opting instead to drag the newly-immobile Granger with him as he exited. Draco fell in step behind them as they headed for the front of the train. He kept his pace unhurried, pretending that no one was watching him through the compartment windows. They all were, though — he could feel every student's eyes staring, burning into his back, with hatred so hot he was afraid it would scald him. His eyes narrowed and he resolutely followed the Gryffindor pair.

Who were also talking about him. How did he know? For one, they were whispering, which was already suspicious in itself. They were very likely the loudest people on the face of the earth, bar none. Therefore, the two Gryffindors were attempting (and failing) to be secretive about their conversation. Doubtless the Weasel was explaining what happened the past summer to Granger, because every so often she would cast her glance back towards Draco, her eyes a mixture of pity and empathy. Whenever she did this, he made a point of smirking at her, just to show her he _knew_ what they were doing, and that it didn't bother him in the slightest. He was still _half_ -better than her, at least.

"Does Harry know?" he heard her whisper once. She glanced back and Draco curled his lips upward, although he now felt very sick. _Did_ Potter know? Weasley shook his head, assuaging all worries. He didn't want to think what would happen to him if Potter found out.

They arrived at the very front of the train, and Granger opened the door to reveal a luxurious front room. The seats appeared to be much comfier than the one he had slept on, and a small array of sandwiches, scones, biscuits and tea were laid out. The first person Draco noticed was Pansy, who sat primly in the far corner. When he glanced her way, her eyes immediately turned outside to the flickering scenery, though they seemed to focus on something beyond sight. Beside him, Granger gasped softly; she must have noticed Pansy's reaction. Draco rolled his eyes. Sodding goody-goody.

"Mister Malfoy," a voice scolded. He turned to find Professor McGonagall frowning at him with disapproval. "Where were you? Did you forget there was a meeting?"

 _Sod off_ , he wanted to say. _It's none of your bloody business_.

"I fell asleep, Professor," he muttered.

She sighed in exasperation, but didn't press him further. "Very well. Help yourself to a sandwich or a scone. We're about to begin." Draco apathetically grabbed a nearby sandwich and sat off to one side. To his disgust, Granger sat beside him almost immediately. He glared at her, but she ignored his reaction. Only Weasley succeeded in moving her — he yanked her away, scolding her in a hushed voice. All of this somehow went unnoticed by McGonagall, or maybe she didn't care. In any case, she cleared her throat and began.

"Hello again, and welcome to another year at Hogwarts. This meeting will be brief. I would simply like to review the rules of Prefect conduct that you received by owl before you are all sent on your first patrol of the year." Draco inwardly rolled his eyes and wondered what type of sandwich he had grabbed. He nibbled on its edge. Cucumber.

Professor McGonagall went over the various duties the Prefects were to have — patrolling hallways at night, helping the younger housemates when necessary, keeping order in the common rooms, and so on. While she spoke, Draco took the time to scan the other Prefects. Of course, there were the two Gryffindors, Granger and Weasley. He could have done without them, but he supposed _anyone_ from Gryffindor would've been bad. A spurt of happiness hit him when he thought of Potter stuck with the other students. It never failed to cheer him. His pleasure diminished when he caught sight of Ernie Macmillan sitting across the way, paying rapt attention to the Professor. Macmillan was a pompous dolt, and was more concerned with brownnosing than he was with following rules. Next to him, Cho Chang was sipping some tea while Hannah Abbott whispered something in her ear. They both giggled and cast obvious glances at the two Gryffindor Prefects. The other Ravenclaw, Anthony Goldstein, frowned at them. And then, of course, there was Pansy, who would look at anyone or anything in the compartment but Draco. An excellent group indeed, he thought scornfully. "Your first task as Prefects is to patrol the train passageway and the compartments. The seventh-year Prefects and the Head Boy and Girl are already patrolling the closer cars; you eight will take the last four cars. Are there any questions?"

Weasley raised his hand. "If someone threatens us with a wand, can we defend ourselves with magic?"

McGonagall pursed her lips. "No, you may _not_ , Mister Weasley, as you well-know. You may, instead, summon me or another professor. Please do not take matters into your own hands; we don't want anyone getting hurt because of your tomfoolery."

He looked a bit put-out. Draco snorted indelicately.

"Are there any other questions?" The Prefects remained collectively silent. "You are dismissed then. Remember to keep to your assigned cars, and work with your partners." Draco rose to leave with the others, but he heard the Professor say, "Mister Malfoy, may I have a word with you before you leave?" It was inevitable that this would happen. Masking his apathy with a blank face, he reseated himself while she allowed the other Prefects to exit the car. The door slid closed on its own accord and it was then the Professor allowed herself to smile gently. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," he droned. "I'm just a bit tired."

McGonagall clicked her tongue tenderly. He kept his gaze on his hands and desperately hoped she would not try to hug him. "I know losing a parent is hard. I lost my mother when I was eight." Draco had to clamp his jaw shut to keep from shouting, _Did you lose yourself as well?_ "I'm sure you miss your father, but I know you're smart enough to keep it from interfering with your duties as a student and as a Prefect."

"Yes, Professor."

"Would you like someone to cover for your patrol today?"

"No, Professor. I'm perfectly alright."

He felt her smile more than saw it, and she patted him tenderly on the shoulder. "If you need someone to speak to, Professor Snape and I are always available." Draco resisted the urge to laugh aloud at the image of Snape comforting him as he nodded to her. "Go ahead, then. We're almost half-way to Hogwarts."

"Yes, Professor. Thank you." He rose without another word and strode into the corridor of the train. It was empty, save an older Slytherin prefect — Draco realized with horror that it was Urquhart — down the way. Draco had been assigned the second-to-last passenger car, so he started down the passageway, making sure to avoid looking at any one spot for too long. When he arrived before his older teammate, though, he found he could go no further. Urquhart was obstructing the door. Draco tried to step to one side, but that option was smoothly blocked as well when the older boy shifted his body.

"Where do you think you're going?" he said.

Aloofly, Draco replied, "I have Prefect duty. If you'll excuse me." He tried to brush past, but the way was once again covered.

"No, you're not excused." The older boy drew himself up to his full height. "You have no right to talk to me like that, like we're equals. It's disgusting." Draco, scowling with rebellious defeat, tipped his chin down and said nothing. "In fact, Malfoy, you might know that I'm also the Quidditch captain this year for Slytherin's team." Draco didn't dare look up. He dreaded what was coming. "After thinking about it, I've decided that your position of Seeker on the team would be better filled by someone else," Urquhart declared. The implied words "someone better" hung in the air, though they weren't said aloud.

Draco, unusually, didn't even flinch at this proclamation. "Right. May I get by now, please?" he asked dully. Urquhart's body shifted slightly, allowing the blond to just slip by. The rest of the way back to the car, Draco could feel eyes on him, as if they knew, as if they all knew. _Sod them_ , he thought bitterly. They could stare at him all they wanted: the walking atrocity of the Malfoy family. He knew they had every reason to.

While he was heading through one of the cars, he ran into Weasley and Granger, the latter of which was scolding a second year while the former watched merrily. When he passed them, Granger looked up and smiled at him. The filthy girl. Draco scowled in answer and was about to tell her off, but Weasley stepped between them.

"Keep walking, Malfoy," he seethed. "She's only trying to be nice."

So Draco did. He finally arrived at the car, only to find that his partner for doing rounds was none other than Pansy. Although he knew he shouldn't have been surprised, he was. Draco silently nodded to her as a greeting, but she didn't even return that. She opted instead to stare at the floor. He noticed that, underneath her makeup, her eyes were puffy.

The four compartments there were filled with a plethora of passengers. The first one held a few staff members, all of whom were reading the Daily Prophet. When he saw a picture of Malfoy Manor on one of the pages, he'd hurriedly shut the door. In the second compartment, Draco's owl was still sleeping, and his trunk was tucked away at the top. No one else had gone in. The third car held an array of first-years, and by the looks of them, they were raised in Muggle households. The fourth and final compartment, to his surprise, held Weasley's younger sister and the infamous Harry —

"Potter," Pansy said pleasantly. "Fancy meeting you here."

The boy's green eyes flickered with a mix of panic and tenacity, and Draco saw him shift ever-so slightly in his seat, just enough to shield the younger Weasley girl if anything should happen. He had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing aloud. Sometimes Potter was so _dense_. Did he honestly think that Slytherins had nothing better to do with their time than hex little girls? Draco may be a monster, but he still had dignity.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" the boy bit out, completely ignoring Pansy. She glanced with pronounced horror at Draco, as if she had suddenly remembered he was there. She then turned and left without as much as a rude goodbye. While Potter looked puzzled, Draco maintained a bored façade.

"I'm doing my duty as a Prefect, naturally," he sneered maliciously. "And if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were attempting to start a fight on the train."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he uttered dryly, his eyes flashing.

Smirking, Draco said, "I could get you a detention for that, Potter. You'd better watch your step."

Scarhead opened his mouth, probably to make an idle threat, but the redhead interrupted him. "Why don't you go sod off, Malfoy?"

"What?" he snapped, while Potter pleaded, "Ginny, don't!"

"Why should I listen to you?" Draco continued recklessly. "I could just as easily get you a detention, though I'd bet you'd like one with ol' Scarhead, wouldn't you?"

For a moment, it appeared as if he had won, because the blood rushed to her face with the hint about her obvious fancy. His smugness disappeared, however, when she managed to smile triumphantly. "I don't have to listen to you," she uttered, "because I'm _better_ than you, Malfoy. I'm a pureblood, after all, and you're a dirty, rotten, _half-blood_."

The effect was immediate.

Draco whipped out his wand and aimed at Weasley, crying, " _Silencio_!" Potter — with a shout — aimed his own wand at Draco and barked, " _Expelliarmus_!" Draco's wand flew out of his hand into Potter's outstretched one, and he fearfully stepped back as the Boy-Who-Lived aimed his weapon at Draco's throat. Both boys were panting hard, and their eyes never left each other's. After a beat of an impasse, the Weasley girl crossed her arms and raised her eyebrow. Scarhead got the message.

" _Finite Incantatem_ ," he whispered, using Draco's wand to remove the spell in order to keep his own trained at the blond's throat.

"Thank you, Harry," she said. She sweetly smiled at Draco while she said this, and it made him want to scream at her. Instead, he said, "Give me back my wand, Potter! I didn't give you permission to use it!" Simply seeing it in the other boy's hand was grating on his nerves.

Scarhead didn't respond to either of them. "Is it true, Malfoy?" he asked seriously. "You're a half-blood?"

"Why don't you go —"

"Yes," the girl butted in, earning a fierce glare from Draco. "His father confessed on his deathbed that his real mother was a Muggle."

"Your father died?" Potter inquired further, even more confused. His wand started to drop.

"Merlin, Potter, do you live in a fucking _cave_?" Draco spat. "He died two and a half months ago! It was all over _The Daily Prophet_!" How could anyone be so ridiculously stupid?

"Oh." With a frown, he dropped his wand completely, allowing Draco to stiffen and self-importantly straighten his robes. Potter, to the surprise of everyone, muttered, "I'm sorry, Malfoy."

"Don't _lie_ to me," the blond hissed, hoping his flushing face didn't show. "You're no sorrier than Weasley here." At the mention of her name, the girl cheekily grinned. "And don't think that you —"

"How did he die?" Potter interrupted.

Surprised, Draco blinked. "Excuse me?"

"How did he die?" he repeated, glancing up. "Was he killed? Was he sick?"

For the life of him, Draco didn't know why he answered, but he did, slowly and quietly. "It was poison," he heaved. "Someone slipped it into his food at Azkaban. He was allowed to come home before he died."

"I'm sorry," the Boy-Who-Lived repeated.

The Weaselette snorted unbecomingly. " _I'm_ not. He was a vile —"

"Ginny, don't," Potter interrupted, rather harshly. "I know what he did to you, but he was also a father." The redhead glared at him before she turned her attention to the window, her face colouring. Potter sighed.

Draco was almost in awe as this passed. What the hell was going on? Why was his mortal enemy acting as if his _own_ relative had died? As if to further Draco's confusion, Scarhead extended his left hand to return the stolen wand. "Take it, Malfoy, and don't bother us." Hesitantly, the blond grabbed his wand and pocketed it before backing out of the compartment. When he shut the door behind him, he heard a muffled argument break out. He was too preoccupied, however, to derive any joy from it.

The rest of the train ride passed uneventfully. Draco had returned to his own compartment to watch the countryside whip by while Pansy did most of the work. He didn't think she minded, mostly because she never came and asked for his help. It didn't matter, anyways.

Draco was still thinking about Scarhead's reaction. Why was he behaving so oddly? Not even Pansy, nor Crabbe, nor Goyle offered even so much as a condolence — not that it mattered, but an apology coming from Potter was baffling. It wasn't as if Potter and Lucius were on the best of terms, that much was obvious. And Draco knew that Potter didn't give two knuts about _him_. For Draco, the idea of basic human compassion was just an idea parents fed their kids so they felt safe at night. He almost preferred the Weasley girl's reaction; it allowed Draco to continue hating her. But Potter, Granger, and even Weasel were all acting like he was their _friend_ , and that his suffering was hurting them. It made him feel sick, and, on a deeper level, guilty.

The castle appeared on the horizon, as imposing as ever. He swallowed a breath of air as the train began to slow down. He only had to survive for nine months on his own. He could do it. Couldn't he?

The train came to a stop, jolting his owl awake. Calming it with a few quick strokes of its feathers, Draco stretched sullenly and levitated his trunk and owl out of his compartment. Prefects, along with the faculty, were to be the first allowed off the trains this year in order for them to send their luggage to school and prepare to help the younger students. He ran into Pansy on his way out, but he deliberately looked away to spare her any trouble, and to spare himself the hurt.

Once off the train, he was instructed to place his luggage on a nearby boat, which would take it back to his quarters in the Slytherin common room. Draco immediately balked. One thing was for sure: he wasn't going to sleep in the Slytherin wing this year. Sod Prefect duties, he didn't want to be smothered in his sleep. While no one was looking, he shrank and pocketed his trunk, then stowed only his owl on the boat to be placed in the owlry. He'd figure out sleeping arrangements later.

Draco fell in line behind a seventh-year Prefect as Professor McGonagall led the group up a path he had never noticed before. It took them windingly through a copse and by a small creek before it turned into Hogsmede Village. Behind him, Draco could hear Granger whispering excitedly to Weasley about the pretty trees and the beautiful creek and oh how lovely the path goes right to town! Draco made a face and tried his best to block out her shrill voice.

The group continued through the village, marched up the familiar hill towards the school grounds, and made their way into the castle. The corridors were still as everyone trooped by. They finally made it to the Great Hall, where hundreds of place settings were perfectly laid out, despite its utter emptiness. It gave him an odd feeling, as if something were amiss. He knew that it was nothing but his imagination, of course, but even so, his eyes flickered apprehensively around him as they continued down the aisle. McGonagall turned and beamed at the students.

"Welcome back to Hogwarts," she said, and her voice echoed all around them. A few smiled half-heartedly. "As Prefects here, some of you know your duties, and some of you do not. The seventh-year Prefects may now join the faculty at the main entrance to help guide the younger students into the Great Hall." Some of the people shuffled past, one bumped Draco rudely and shot him a snide, "Watch it, mudblood."

"Sorry," he sighed, scrunching himself up to allow the rest to pass with ease. When he dared to look up again, he saw that Granger was staring at him, her eyes again full of that intolerable pity.

"What the hell are you looking at?" he demanded. Ron shot him a scathing glare and defensively moved between Draco and Granger, as if Draco were diseased. Irked, the Slytherin openly rolled his eyes. "Please, Weasley, are you stupid enough to believe I'm going to hurt her? I wouldn't waste my time, and even a dolt like you should know that."

The other boy flushed brilliantly, red enough to be disturbing. When he opened his mouth, however, it wasn't a moronic threat that came out. He simply grumbled, "Sorry."

Draco blinked, but McGonagall chose to start her speech before he could reply. "Your Prefect duties tonight will be first to guide the new students in your house towards the dormitories. You will teach them the password to the common room, which I will give you now." She flicked her wand, and a piece of paper appeared before each of the students, including Draco. He shook off his surprise and read the single word before it disappeared. "If you happen to forget the password, please ask the other Prefects in your house or a faculty member to remind you of it. As soon as you get the first-years to the common room, show them to their dormitories, and remind them that if they have any questions, they may ask you for help. Afterwards, we will all meet here again so I can assign you your patrolling schedules. Are there any questions?"

No one moved, and McGonagall smiled stuffily. "The other students will enter soon, so please seat yourselves and prepare for the feast."

Draco, now famished, turned towards the Slytherin table and was about to sit in his usual seat when he froze. Pansy was staring — well, frowning — at him. He knew why. He wasn't welcome to sit with them. That was where Pansy and her friends were eating. Elevating his head slightly in acknowledgement, he made a beeline for the far end, furthest from the staff's table, and plopped down. Naturally, when he looked up, he found Granger still giving him that same pitying look. It almost made him vomit. When he was sure McGonagall wasn't looking, he gave her a two-fingered salute and mouthed "bugger off", hoping his directness would get through that bush she called her hair and into her head.

The students began to file in around this time, obliging Draco to drop his eyes to the table and try his best at disappearing without magic. Slytherins walked by him, some ignorant of his presence, the rest willfully ignorant of it. By the time everyone was seated, Draco could have fully extended his arms in any direction and he wouldn't have touched another soul, living or deceased (considering the Bloody Baron was entertaining down the way). Even when the first years came in, they knew to stay away. An invisible shield, a much stronger one than magic could ever make, had been forced upon him by the others, by those he would have known as friends otherwise.

McGonagall rose and began the sorting, but Draco heard only babbling accompanied by sporadic applause. Before he knew it, Dumbledore was speaking, wishing everyone the best of luck with the new school year, prattling on about new beginnings for everyone. The applause was beginning to grow old. Draco barely looked up from his plate, as he feared he might lose control. Dinner finally appeared. He heaped as much onto his plate as he could manage — and as a result of his solitude, that happened to be quite a lot. His first bite, however, only revealed the food to be bland, and what had been a hearty appetite before was now satisfied with a few forkfuls of shepherds pie. Draco entertained himself the rest of the meal by watching the first years bashfully interact with their new housemates. By the time the desserts disappeared, he was ready to turn in. Pansy, however, appeared at his elbow.

"We have to show the first years to their quarters," she announced faintly. She seemed scared to stand too close to him. "You may follow us from behind to make sure no one gets lost."

"Right."

With a firm voice, Pansy summoned the first years from the dinner table and began the procession towards the Slytherin common room, demanding they keep up in between her curt descriptions of Hogwarts. Draco didn't much pay attention until a few girls in the back took notice of him.

"Is that Draco Malfoy?" one of them cried delightedly, a twisted grin on her face. "How quaint! Isn't he something of a servant now?"

"No, no," another chimed in, "they keep him around as a kind of dummy. So we can practice our spells." The others made no attempt to hide their cruel glances and wicked smiles. Meanwhile, Pansy led the way, seemingly unaffected by their chatter.

"Here it is," she said, stopping before the hidden entrance. "All you need to say is the password." She turned to the statue and with her cool voice, she said, " _Potch_."

On command, the stone wall melted down to a passageway, and the children followed Pansy inside. Draco, however, let the door close, and after a moment of silence, he wandered away.

He didn't know how long he was in the hallways, but he continued, one foot before the other, hoping more than expecting to find a place to sleep. When he heard someone coming, he'd slip down a separate corridor and move on.

It had to have been past curfew when he heard a soft mewing behind him. Horrified, he turned to see Filch's cat lurking between the legs of a nearby suit of armour. As expected, Draco immediately heard Filch hobbling closer, calling out the cat's name, and his stomach clenched at the idea of getting into more trouble.

So he ran.

Up the stairs, down a corridor, around the corner, his feet were flying and he almost lost himself in the maze of circular scenery. The only thing on his mind was a safe place to sleep, anywhere, and suddenly a simple oak door appeared right before his eyes. Draco cast a swift glance to both his right and left before he turned the knob and burst inside.

To his surprise, a fire was crackling welcomingly in the hearth, beyond a small sofa. His owl had somehow gotten there. (Thank Merlin for that. He had been planning on avoiding the owlry at all costs, knowing first-hand how often Slytherins bullied other students there.) Even the covers on the bed were turned down, as if he were expected. With one last glimpse over his shoulder, he shut the door behind him and padded inside.

The Room of Requirement.

Merlin, he had almost forgotten about it. It was the same place Potter and his loyal dogs had used to practice defence against the dark arts the year before. Draco never thought he would have to use it himself. He considered this room as a safety harbour, only used by desperate cranks like Potter and his idiot friends. Now he was an unlikely (and rather unwilling) member of their group. That particular idea he pondered with a pang of terror. He didn't want to be a part of the misfit trio. Couldn't he just have his old life back?

The more he thought about it, though, the more he knew that even if he found out tomorrow that it had all been a hoax, he could never go back to being the boy he was before. Everything had changed, and he'd just have to survive from now on, the monster lurking on the seventh floor.

Draco unpacked his trunk and changed into his pajamas. The fire was already dimming when he pulled the covers back and lay down. In that moment, he was as tired as he had ever been.

* * *

Poor guy. There is, of course, more to this story than Draco getting bullied, but that won't come for a bit yet. Please review and let me know what you think.


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